“It’s coming at us fast, cap’n!” Udder Moron cried even as he pegged away at the keyboard in front of him, turning the thrusters on full bore.

“Permission to dock?” came over the radio. “Hard In the Saddle here, with Man Aids right behind me. We’ve flown a long way to greet you.”

Hand Pump wiped his brow. “Now isn’t the best time, gentlemen,” he announced, even as he was rocked by the impact of a second asteroid. “Damage, Muff Daddy?”

“The bilge has been hit hard, and there is now a fire raging in the engine room. We’re at twenty-five percent capacity.”

“Aye, captain,” the radio crackled. “It looks like your main thruster is lit up brighter than Christmas lights. There’s even more asteroids, you’re in the middle of a fucking storm of them here, there’s more here than there are venereal eruptions on Man AIDS!”

In the background of space, no one can hear you scream… but if that wasn’t true one would have been deafened by the supersonic protest from the other ship. Hard In the Saddle continued, “If you don’t get that contained before the next hit it could cause a massive implosion. So, about docking?”

“Fine, fine,” Hand Pump sighed. “Big Cock Chains, chart us a course to pick up the visitors and get us out of this field. Backside Banger, make sure Hard in the Saddle and Man AIDS are properly inspected. I Cunt Here You, what’s our status?”

The bridge was silent. Dick Ass Mother Fucker spoke up. “There’s no hope of containment for at least a week. Conditions are expecting to worsen rapidly, and even the bridge will be affected soon by deteriorating air quality.”

“And?” Hand Pump prompted.

“Kegs are at peak capacity.”

“Excellent!” Fucker clapped his hands. “Why didn’t you say so?”

Big Cock Chains thrust his chest out proudly, handing Hand Pump a crumpled napkin with some scribbles on it. Hand Pump took the note solemnly, passing it to Fuck Norris who blew her nose in it before realizing she was meant to adjust course. The ship darted through the field at high speeds, occasionally zigging when it should have zagged, while the occupants on the bridge drank themselves into oblivion.

“Captain, it’s horrible!” Six Tits a Week stumbled in front of them grasping his chest.

Do Her Well followed, a pained look on her face. “Sir, we lost lighting in the bunks. None of us could see where we were going, and so… there were some casualties.”